


a little something sweet

by itslilimethinks



Category: Andromeda Six (Visual Novel)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Baking, Fluff, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Relationships, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:40:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29661894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itslilimethinks/pseuds/itslilimethinks
Summary: some roommates lose their key or let their partner sleep over without asking. you're roommate, on the other hand...
Relationships: Sebastian "Bash" Ilahaj & Traveler, Sebastian "Bash" Ilahaj/Traveler
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	a little something sweet

living with a roommate...there are ups and downs. ups include split rent and chores, movie nights and never really getting locked out, but the downs. the downs were rough. take, for instance, tonight, when you woke up to a cacophony of ungodly sounds coming from the kitchen, including but not limited to clattering, clanging, crashing, banging and overall disruptive noises with a splash of unintelligible singing, just for funsies. your roommate knows you’re a light sleeper. his days are numbered.

you contemplate putting your head under a pillow and going back to sleep (or suffocating. whichever comes first, really), but it takes about half a second or so to know that’s not going to work. you’re almost impressed you slept this long. a glance at your phone tells you what you already knew; you’re closer to sunrise than anything else, and you probably won’t be going back to sleep any time soon. welp. if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em?

you shrug on a pair of sweatpants and throw on some semblance of a shirt (it’s too dark to tell what it is, and you don’t really care regardless,) and drag yourself towards the sound of impending doom, 4 a.m. edition. you screw your eyes shut at the garish light that meets you before you slowly open one after another. it’s not a pretty sight.

there’s a cyborg, but that’s not the surprising part; you got used to the metal arm ages ago. specifically it’s a cyborg covered in flour, food dye and an ambiguous sort of dough humming to himself in the middle of the night and has somehow covered your joint kitchen in every type of powder imaginable. you recoil at the sight, equal parts horrified and enraged at the mess he’s made. you stand there, blinking, and bash freezes in his tracks.

“holy shit,” he swears, “did i wake you up?”

you run your hands through your hair as you glare sleepily at the culprit, whose face is akin to a mouse getting caught teasing the cheese out from inside a mouse trap. “what...what are you making?”

instead of answering your question, bash opts to avoid his inevitable demise. “i am so, so sorry,” he apologizes in earnest, quietly setting down the bowl he’d been holding mere moments ago and rushing to turn off the light. the flood of platitudes continue as he starts cleaning feverishly, though he only succeeds in scattering ingredients every which way. apparently one bionic eye isn’t enough to see in the dark.

you feel around for the light and flip it back on, wincing once again as you do so. “bash, chill,” you groan, voice still heavy with exhaustion, “it’s fine. you can finish,”

“are you sure?” he asks skeptically. your eyes roll back of your own accord as you nod.

“i’m already up,” you say, “i’m not gonna go back to sleep now,”

bash looks back at you suspiciously as he slowly resumes his work, saying, “...are you sure you’re not mad?”

you’re starting to return to a more reliable state of consciousness when you say, “now i never said that,” though the beginnings of a smile and the glint in your eye tell your roommate that he’s fine (for now).

“but i better get something good outta this mess,”

you find yourself sitting on top of the counter as you ask bash, “so what are you making?” most of the bite from your bark is gone, though there remains the playful edge that bash has become accustomed too.

“fruit tarts,” he replies, barely sparing you a glance as he opens the oven to pull something out and shove something else in, “crusts are blind baking, filling is on the stove, fruit is still in the fridge,”

you follow about half of that, but he doesn’t have to know.

“you need a hand?” you offer nonetheless, though bash shakes his head before you even finish the thought.

“i’m good,” he says, nonchalant. he seems confident, in the zone or something along those lines. you could think about that more. but you’re tired.

you watch him bake idly, and though you cringe every time you glance at the clock you can’t help but enjoy the energy surrounding your roommate. he’s focused, unusually so, but there’s not a hint of tension to be found. he’s humming, whirling around the kitchen like you’re not even there. it’s a side to your friend you’ve never seen before, if you’re honest. you don’t hate it.

everything seems to be going smoothly. crusts are out and cooled, filling is finished off, the only step left is to slice the fruit and seal the deal. he must’ve bought out the entire grocery store, you think as you survey the supply spread across the kitchen. everything looks good. that is, except bash. he tries his best to hide it, but your roommate is an open book and now is no exception. he’s been trying to slice the same pear for upwards of five minutes, and at first you weren’t sure what the struggle was. you were able to figure it out with a moment of discrete observation.

you and bash don’t talk about his arm much; there’s never been a reason too. you’re close, but not that close. you’re roommates who became friends, not friends who became roommates. you’ve got no reason to enquire either; your parents raised you to have boundaries, and you’re not afraid to use them. it’s only now, when you see him struggling with it, that the questions start flooding in. you know better than to ask. that’s not gonna make him feel any better. but you can’t just sit here and watch him fidget with the knife, switching hands over and over with no new result. you can’t do that to him.

so instead, you get up off the counter, walk over to where bash is standing, and gently take the knife from him. he gives it to you quietly and you pretend you don’t see him swipe underneath his eye as you take over, making quick work of the fruit in front of you. you may not be a baking extraordinaire, but at least you know how to use a knife. you don’t look back at bash as you continue, but you hear him say one little word in nearly a whisper,

“thanks,”

“you can thank me by cleaning up the mess in here,” you reply, as if he hadn’t just been on the verge of tears. you can feel his glare on the back of your neck, but the scoff you get in return tells you he’s fine. it’s not really your place to comfort him. you’re sure he has someone else for that.

it’s not long before the tarts are ready to be assembled, and with your help they actually come together really nicely. it feels like an accomplishment when you drop the last kiwi cube into place, which is odd considering that you didn’t do all that much, but it’s exciting nonetheless. the two of you can’t help but grin at each other as the first rays of sun trickle through the window, though you’re definitely ready to go back to sleep now. from the looks of it, bash is too. you figure it’s fair, considering he’s been up all night. but, hey, at least you got something good out of it.


End file.
